by Wish Wynne I'd go and drown me bloomin' self for two pins, I'd run away, if I knew where to go, Father's uncle, him abroad, has died an' left us all his money, Why he didn't take it with him I dunno. Now we don't live down Barker's Court no longer, We're living in a place they call Park View. We've got five rooms all on our own and there's only fourteen of us, We lose our bloomin' selves in 'em we do. I wish we'd never had the rotten money, We're all as miserable as can be, We don't know nobody, an' nobody knows us, And no one wants to-far as I can see. We don't get any fun, not like we used to, Father's doing things he never did before, Mother 'asn't had a black eye now for weeks and weeks and weeks, And we were so happy when we were poor. I always thought me mother's name was " push face," It's the only name I ever knew she had, Now father calls 'er Elizabeth, ain't it a rotten name, An' she calls 'im 'Erbert, 'Erbert's just as bad. If yer want to know somethink, we've got a slavey, But yesterday I punched 'er on the nose. She's going home on Saturday, a jolly good job too, Still me mother'll get another I suppose. I wish the bloomin' bank would bust or something, An' let us be just like we used to be ; We mustn't fight,we mustn't pinch, we mustn't swear, it's awful, If anyone is sick of it, it's me. The girls at Park View College, they all 'ate me, Barker's Court girls they won't speak to me no more, And now me mother says we've got to go to Sunday school, And we were so happy when we were poor. I want to go where we know all the people, It's rotten straight where we're a'living now. Ye never sees a fight unless the sparrers starts a sparrin', Then the neighbours all complain about the row. We're all respectable in Park View terrace, Well, a parson lives at number twenty-two; We've all got 'andles on our doors, and blinds up at the winders, An' the copper comes down by 'imself 'e do. Oh, I want to see Bill Johnson slosh his missus, The way he used to every Sat'day night, And throw his mother down the stairs, and fling things at the copper And see Ginger Bill and Hoppy have a fight. Now I've got to comb me hair out every morning, And me face it ain't arf getting awful sore, 'Cause every time I get it dirty now, I've got to wash it, And we were so happy when we were poor.
The end